


Sing My Song

by frecklesarechocolate



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Batcave, Fluff, M/M, Mary Winchester - Freeform, Men of Letters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 08:16:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frecklesarechocolate/pseuds/frecklesarechocolate





	Sing My Song

**Title** : Sing My Song  
 **Author** : [](http://choc-freckles.livejournal.com/profile)[**choc_freckles**](http://choc-freckles.livejournal.com/)  
 **Fandom** : Supernatural  
 **Pairings** : Dean/Cas  
 **Rating** : All audiences  
 **Word** **Count** : 915  
 **Disclaimer** : These characters do not belong to me. I am making no profit from this fan fiction, other than the massive enjoyment of writing about my babies.  
 **Warnings** : Spoilers up to 8.14, "Trial and Error"  
 **Summary** : Dean gets acquainted with his new room  
 **Author's notes** : In response to several posts I saw on Tumblr about the typewriter in Dean's room. Title is taken from one of Dean's favorite songs: Led Zeppelin's [Ramble On](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a3HemKGDavw).

Also on AO3.

Dean had been enjoying exploring the Batcave so much recently that he hadn't really done much more in his room other than set it up. But once he'd given the entire place the once over, he went back to his room and propped himself up on his bed, lone pillow stuffed behind his head.

He could get used to this, he decided. He let his eyes wander over the room, the records stacked up neatly by the turntable, the old black phone from circa 1951, the tall wooden dresser that was way heavier than it looked and had been a bitch to move. He smiled as he looked at the picture of his mom, and thought about getting a frame for it. He could hang it on the wall, maybe put a couple of other pictures up there too. There were a couple on his phone that he liked.

His eyes fell on the old typewriter, and he shifted his head back for a moment, brows furrowing. He'd never used a typewriter before, in fact, this was probably the first time he'd seen one outside of a museum. He got up off the bed and went over to inspect the old machine. It was an electric typewriter, and after careful examination, it looked like the plug was okay, no frayed wires or anything that might immediately burn the place to the ground. Dean plugged the machine in and turned it on. 

A soft hum emitted from the machine, and Dean put his palm on the top of it, feeling the vibrations as it waited to be used for what was probably the first time in over fifty years. There was already a sheet of paper in the machine, a few tentative words typed out, clearly designed to test the ribbon, and not any important, secret, "Men of Letters" business.

Dean dragged over a chair and sat, wiggling his fingers as he prepared to use the machine. It's not like he really had anything pressing at the moment, so why not see whether this thing still worked?

He quickly found that typing on a typewriter, even an electric one, was much harder work than using a computer. The keys had to be thoroughly convinced to go down all the way. Only then would it send the metal type bar flying up from the bowels toward the paper with a loud "clack!", leaving behind the impression of a letter. Dean typed a few experimental words, nonsense, really, a small grin on his face as he did so.

He typed his name, and then Sam's, and then, for the fun of it, Castiel's. Then he typed "Sam Winchester cries his way through sex", but decided he didn't want to leave it there, so he used the backspace to move the bar back. He held down the shift key and typed capital X's over the sentence, a steady drone of "clack! clack! clack!" following in the wake of his trail of letters. The ribbon still seemed to have some ink on it, which was good.

He shunted the return bar, forcing the roller to shift the page up a line and return back to the left margin. He sat for a few minutes, contemplating the blank space of the page in front of him, and then dug around in the drawers of the desk. In the bottom drawer on the right hand side was a pile of blank paper. Pulling out the used sheet of paper, he wound a new one through and tried to line it up properly so that the line of typeface would be straight. It took several attempts before he decided that it would be all right.

Dean chewed on his lower lip for a moment, thinking. He wasn't sure what he was doing, exactly. He only knew that he had something in the front of his mind, something that he wanted to get out on paper, and he wasn't exactly sure what that was. He laid his fingers on the keyboard lightly several times, each time lifting his hands and placing them in his lap, or on the desk next to the typewriter without typing a line.

Finally, with a nod of his head, he settled his hands on the keys one more time, and began to type.

_"She used to sing Hey Jude and make tomato rice soup when I was sick. She always had apple pie in the house, home made of course. My memories of her grow hazier with each passing year, but the memory of her smile, and the touch of her hand on my cheek will never fade."_

Cas found Dean later that evening, a pile of about ten typed pages next to him on the desk, covered in x's and filled with typos. Cas rested his hand on the back of Dean's neck, and Dean leaned into the warm palm, groaning slightly at the stiffness in his neck and shoulders.

"What have you been up to?" Cas asked quietly.

Dean nodded at the pile of paper. "Writing stuff." He shrugged. "Getting some thoughts down." 

Cas made a soft humming sound. "Anything you would like me to read?"

Dean hesitated. "Not yet. Soon."

Cas nodded and leaned down to press his lips against Dean's. "It's late. Come to bed." Dean smiled and nodded. Turning off the typewriter and the lamp next to it, he brushed one hand on the small pile of papers. He'd get back to it tomorrow.


End file.
